“Well, what the devil business did he have coming in her room, anyway? What was he looking for?”

“A drink of water probably,” she said. “But the police don’t like to have girls shoot men in the back and then claim they were being attacked.”

“It was dark in the room,” I said.

“He was trying to get out.”

“He’d tried to choke her the night before.”

“He had?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

I told her. She listened carefully and said, “How does she know it was Morgan Birks who tried to choke her?”

“It stands to reason,” I insisted.

“It takes more than that to sell the police on an idea,” she said. “Donald, be a good boy. Ring up the motor-vehicle registration department at headquarters, tell them it’s the Cool Detective Agency, and get them to give you the registration of 5N1525 and 5M1525. I’m going to go get some clothes on.”

She pinched out the cigarette, exhaled a long last appreciative cloud of smoke, heaved herself from the chair, and strode out toward the bedroom, removing the silk robe as she walked. She dressed without bothering to close the door. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her moving around; and she could hear me as I called the department of vehicular registrations and found out that 5N1525 was registered in the name of George Salisbery, 938 Main Street, Centerville, and 5M1525 in the name of William D. Cunweather, 907 Willoughby Drive.

I hung up the telephone after writing down the names and addresses, and Mrs. Cool called from the bedroom, “That Salisbery guy doesn’t sound so good. That Willoughby Drive address may be our meat. How does it seem to you, Donald?”

“It could be. The house looked as though it were out around that section somewhere.”

“Call a cab,” she said.

“I have one waiting downstairs.”

“Are you sporting taxicabs for your private transportation?” she asked. “Or did you think you were on an expense account?”

I flared up and said, “I thought I was on an expense account.”

She was silent for several seconds. I sat there wondering whether she was going to blow up and fire me or take it.

“All right,” she said in that maternal voice of hers. “We’ll go downstairs and take it, Donald, dear. I’ll make a note of whatever’s on the meter and take it out of your salary. Let’s go.”

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE TAXI driver turned into the eight hundred block on Willoughby Drive. Mrs. Cool said, “Go down to 907, but don’t stop. Drive past slowly and let us look it over.”

The driver asked no questions. Fares who send a cab prowling around at that hour of the morning are apt to make peculiar requests, and a cab driver gets his tips by saving his arguments until he gets home to his wife.